


Choke Me with Your Kiss, Eat Me From the Inside

by bboiseux



Series: Critical Role Campaign 2 [35]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Consensual Sex After Rape, F/F, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, Rape, Tentacle Sex, Vaginal Sex, Yasha is an Eldritch Horror AU, and feelings, gagging, lots and lots of feelings, monster fucking, suffocation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 05:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16469240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bboiseux/pseuds/bboiseux
Summary: Yasha leaves to serve the Stormlord.  That's what she always tells the group.  That's what Beau believes--because Yasha said it.  But when Beau gets tired of Yasha leaving without saying goodbye and follows her when she sneaks out of camp, Beau witnesses the truth: Yasha's transformation into a grotesque horror.  Too late, Beau realizes that Yasha didn't leave out of duty to a god, but out of a desire to protect her friends.  Too late, Beau realizes that Yasha hungers for her.  Too late, Beau realizes there's no escape from what Yasha has become.  A monsterfucking fic.IMPORTANT:Pleasepleasein the name of all that is holy or unholy, pay attention to thewarningsandtags.  I am not kidding.  Don't like, don't read.Reading Time:abt 29 minsStatus:Updating





	Choke Me with Your Kiss, Eat Me From the Inside

A storm was sweeping silently over the plains, thunderheads stacked on thunderheads, building dark termite piles high in the night sky.  This late, the clouds were expanses of emptiness—marked mostly by the absence of stars and the occasional spark of distant lightning.  A dull rumble of thunder—flat and long—rolled towards the campsite—small tents and a fragile, smoldering fire—but the roar crested early and crashed against the plains below.

Sitting there, watching the black shadows race across the sky, watching the distant lightning glitter off Yasha’s upraised eyes, Beau knew Yasha was getting ready to leave.  Yasha’s body was coiled—like a alabaster statue poised to launch into the sky—but her face was passive, only the energy of her eyes, green and violet, betraying her thoughts.

Beau loved those eyes.  She often laid awake at night, picturing those eyes, unyielding, boring into her face with the sharpness of uncut diamonds.  Those were the nights when she let her mind run away with her.  Those where the nights when—despite Jester laying asleep within arm’s reach—Beau’s hand crept between her legs and rubbed out a fantasy.  Yasha above her.  Her heavy body crushing Beau into the ground.  Her thick arms solid and unyielding.  Her hand squeezing lightly around Beau’s throat.  The burn of Yasha’s naked body between Beau’s legs.  Those were the nights after Yasha had just left.

Then there were the nights when Yasha had been gone for weeks.  When Beau wasn’t sure that Yasha was ever coming back.  Then her hand beat and slapped and Beau would clamp a hand across her mouth to muffle her screams.  Then the vision of Yasha wasn’t just on top of her but ravishing her.  Kisses hard and greedy, tongue filling Beau’s mouth.  Hands pinning Beau’s arms to the ground, bruises flowering bright purple under Yasha’s grip.  Teeth leaving trails of welts from Beau’s neck to her breasts.  Mouth sucking, pulling at Beau’s nipples.  Arms spreading Beau wide, cracking her open.  Fingers plunging into her.  Tongue lapping.  Until Beau exploded.  Left panting and drenched.

When Yasha was gone.

It was different when she was here.  All those fantasies dripped away and Beau pelted Yasha with flirtations like little pebbles against a brick wall.  Beau smiled small but loud and felt a warm glow in her chest that she didn’t understand.  She liked the way Yasha made her feel, even if she didn’t think Yasha felt that way back.  Yasha was Beau’s fantasies wrapped up in exactly the woman she wanted for a friend.

So Beau couldn’t understand why, watching Yasha watching the storm, she choked on a hot ball of anger in her throat.

“Don’t leave.”  She spit it out as the thunder rumbled up from the distance, the rain poised to drench the already saturated ground beneath their boots.

Yasha shifted and looked at her with a question in those jewel-like eyes.  “If the storm calls me, I have to go.”

“Why?  Why do you have to go so fucking bad?”

Yasha’s eyes seemed to flicker and her face softened.  She looked back out at the storm.  When she spoke, it was tinged with weariness.  “If I could stay, I would.  But I have an obligation and I can’t shirk that.  I have a debt that needs to be paid.”

Beau crossed her arms.  “Well, just say good-bye, okay?  Don’t fucking disappear in the night.  It’s a—it’s disrespectful.”

Yasha didn’t say anything and the distant pounding of the storm filled the silence.  The violent fall of rain could be heard somewhere nearby.  The storm would be on them soon.

“I—” Something shrank in Yasha, like a chord had been pulled and her insides deflated, her shoulders sinking down.  Then, just as quickly, she rose back up.  “—I will if I can.”

The anger still burned in Beau’s throat and it made her choke on her words, so she said nothing.  Yasha’s answer didn’t make sense.  If she cared about them, if she cared about Beau, why didn’t she just say good-bye.  Beau wasn’t possessive.  She didn’t need to keep Yasha within arm’s reach.  She just wanted that little sign that Yasha gave a shit—a good-bye, instead of a vanishing act.  So, the watch ticking away in silence, Beau decided she wasn’t going to let Yasha go without saying good-bye, but she wouldn’t force her to say it either.  Yasha would simply wake up from wherever she had wandered to and Beau would be there like nothing out of the ordinary.  Just a “Hey” and a nod.

The watch ended uneventfully and, as Yasha and Beau settled in on their separate rolls—being careful not to wake Jester—the storm still lurked, dark clouds and empty threats.  The wind was building and the lightning and thunder ever present.  If the storm ever came, it promised to be a nasty one.

Beau waited in the dark until she heard the sounds she expected.  The scrape of Yasha moving quietly.  The slow movement of the bedroll against the canvas of the tent, as Yasha (Beau imagined) carefully rolled it up, eyes darting to the prone bodies of Jester and Beau.  Yasha was sneaking out.  She was leaving without saying good-bye.  The fury burned hot in Beau’s chest.

Beau waited—until she heard the back flap of the tent shift and Yasha’s steps move from dry scratches to muddy, sticky treads.  Then she moved quickly.  She grabbed her goggles and snapped them on, the world popping into a clean relief of grays and blacks and whites.  She packed her bedroll—messy, without discipline—and threw her pack together.  Her eyes jumped to Jester.  What would she think when she woke up in the morning to find the tent empty?  Would she panic?  Would she just send a message, the arcane forces chasing Yasha or Beau down?  Beau grimaced as she thought about the pained look on Jester’s face, but she didn’t have the time to explain.  She plunged into the night.

Yasha had made quick progress in the time Beau had taken to pack.  She pounded steadily forward through the darkness, her large frame buffeted but strong against the rising winds.  She was already at the edge of Beau’s vision—nothing but a tiny shifting shadow in a sea of darkness.  A sea of darkness that was rushing towards them.  The wind had picked up in just the last ten minutes and it tore at Beau’s hair and clothes.  She tightened the straps on her pack, felt it press secure against her back.  The smell of rain was strong—an earthy musk that forced itself into Beau’s nose and sat there, heavy and damp.  Lightning shuddered in the clouds above and the thunder followed immediately.  The rain still held back, but the threat was no longer empty.  The storm was here.

Ten minutes later, the rain drove down—stinging and cold on Beau’s skin—whipped harshly back against her by the wind as she pushed forward.  She couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the rain, the wind, and the storm above.  Water ran in rivulets across the goggles and—even when she wiped them clean—she could barely see a few feet ahead.  She was reduced to walking forward, waiting for the copper burst of lightning and brief breaks in the curtains of rain to make out a fleeting glimpse of Yasha, altering her course a little at a time.  Her clothes clung to her skin and the weight of the water pulled at her limbs.  Her boots were holding up, but the ground sucked her down with each step and she only freed herself with a mighty tug of each leg.  She was slowing down.

Beau picked her way forward—her mind disconnected from time, focused just on the distant figure.  The storm still slammed out its fury above.  Beau had given up any of her things staying dry.  She could feel her pack filling with water, its weight increasing by the minute, a cold slosh pressing into the small of her back.  Her goggles had started to fog and she was nearly blind.  But removing them would only plunge her into true blindness.  Yasha was still ahead, Beau had glimpsed her just a moment before, still seemingly unaware she was being followed, still striding forward at a steady rate.

Then, a break, a flash, and Beau realized that Yasha was veering of her path, somehow picking up speed.  The rain seemed to be slowing down and, as the veil thinned, Beau realized that Yasha was hurrying towards a large thicket of trees—possibly the remains of some vast forest that had once covered these plains.  Beau ripped her feet out of the mud and sprinted towards Yasha.  The storm weighed her down, but she knew that if Yasha reached those trees, that was it—she would lose Yasha.  Beau wasn’t going to let that happen.

When Beau reached the tree line, Yasha had already plunged into the depths of the old growth.  The storm rattled above and Beau glanced up.  Through the fog on her goggles and the splatter of rain, she could make out a dark mound of clouds swirling slowly over the thicket like a whirlpool.  Gazing outward—eyes catching details in the sporadic dance of lightning in the clouds—Beau saw that the storm was converging on this thicket and, as more clouds joined the maelstrom above, the storm piled higher and darker and the lightning grew more constant.

For a moment, just a moment, Beau considered that she had made a mistake.

Then Yasha screamed from somewhere within the thicket.  Beau’s head snapped back towards the trees.  A dull, pulsing glow reached out from deep behind the tree line.  Another scream cut through the air, but this time it twisted and turned in on itself until it was an agonized, animalistic wail.  Beau tore off the goggles and plunged into the thicket.

Immediately, she tripped.   She scrambled to her feet and, glancing down, saw Yasha’s pack thrown carelessly aside, contents spilling onto the ground.

Another scream.  A wail.  The light pulsed bright, then faded back to a dull gray, just barely illuminating the wood.

Beau stumbled forward, the goggles dangling from the fingers of her left hand.  She cast her eyes around as she fought through the thick branches.  Her feet fumbled on the decaying leaves and branches that covered the ground.  Another few steps and Yasha’s sword and top tossed aside.  Another few steps: her boots, her pants.

The scream came again, but it was already deeper this time.  The sound leaked into Beau’s brain and she shuddered and lost her footing.  She grabbed for a tree trunk and her fingers scrapped against the old bark.  She felt the sting and dampness of blood but her fingers found purchase.  Just beyond was a small break in the trees.

Yasha was huddled, naked, in that break, her back hunched, her head pulled into her chest, her fists grinding into the ground, and a dull yellowish light—exactly like the afterimage of a lightning strike—pulsed down from the storm above.  Oddly, the rain didn’t touch here—the ground was wet, but the air clear.  As Beau looked on, Yasha screamed again and punished the ground with her fists.  Her knuckles were bloody and black in the sickly light, ripped open on the tree roots that entwined the thicket floor.  With a jerk, every muscle in her body locked up and Yasha swallowed the scream and it was taken up by the low moan—thick and rumbling—that seemed to issue from her gut.  Beau had thought it was an animal, but now it sounded like the sound that insects would make if they could scream.  There was a chitinous clicking in the heart of the wail.

Beau sucked at her bleeding fingers, her body fighting her mind, telling her to stay back, but she rushed Yasha.  She slammed to a stop, kneeling next to Yasha’s hunched and twitching body, the roots gashing at her knees.  The light was even more yellow here, directly underneath—underneath whatever the storm had brought.  And there was a smell, like lake mud dredged from the deepest part of the lake—a rotten pungent aroma that coated Beau’s tongue.

Hesitantly, Beau reached out a hand and touched Yasha’s shoulder.  “Yasha?”

The storm rumbled, ponderous and deep, as she spoke and Beau thought her question had been lost in the storm.

But then Yasha—shaking, her movements jerky—turned her head to look at Beau.  Her hair was caked with mud and her eyes welled with tears.  When she looked up and saw Beau, her face collapsed into despair and the tears cascaded down her face.  Through gritted teeth, she said, “Please.  Go.”

Beau opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her mouth.  Next to her hand on Yasha’s shoulder, Yasha’s back was breathing, not in time with Yasha’s own labored breaths, but to its own steady pulse.  Beau leaned closer and she saw what looked like boney fingers shifting and pushing outward under the skin.  It bulged in places, sometimes pushing out too far, the skin threatening to rip apart under the strain.

Yasha pried apart her teeth and screamed a desperate, guttural command: “Go!”  It was a desperate plea

For a moment, Beau almost listened.  She almost let that scared little rodent in the back of her head scurry away to hide in a darkened corner.  But the moment passed and Beau looked at Yasha and said, “I’m not fucking leaving you like this.”

Yasha wailed, drawing her head in to her chest and clutching at the dirt and roots.  At first Beau thought it was because she wouldn’t leave, but then the wail stretched and snapped in Yasha’s throat and became that chitinous moan again—a cry deep inside Yasha’s gut, muffled but deafening.

The boney fingers under Yasha’s skin pushed out again and there was a tear, wet and cracking like the sound of ribs being torn from a week-old carcass.  Impossibly long white bones ripped through Yasha’s back, slamming upwards, climbing towards the sky.  Blood and cartilage and worse sprayed across Beau and the ground—a wet slap.  They pulled Yasha upwards, to standing, into the air, unfolding and unfolding outward into massive wings crackling with a dark energy.

That moment—Yasha hanging in the air, wings of bone and obsidian drenched in a yellow light—seemed to last an eternity.  There was an emptiness in the wings.  Beau stared right at them and her eyes burned at the sense of wrongness they projected into the world.  They swallowed everything that touched them.

And they were divinely beautiful.

Then, as if hit by a shockwave, Beau slammed to the ground.  Fear clutched in her chest.  She clawed at the chunks of meat that peppered her face.  Heart racing.  Lungs tight.  Adrenaline surging.  Vision blurred, shaking.  Beau scrambled backwards on her hands and feet, unable to take her eyes of Yasha.  The wail came again, but Yasha’s mouth didn’t open.  Instead, her abdomen bulged and distended, as if an enormous fetus was rolling inside her, pushing, and kicking, and clawing to get out.  And the wail, muffled by Yasha’s insides, grew more and more desperate, the chittering undertones louder and louder and deeper and—

A slash of crimson bisected Yasha’s belly.  Her abdomen blossomed purple and red.  Centipede-like intestines spilled out of the gash—one, then two, then three, then a mass of roiling violet viscera, and Yasha’s entire abdomen split open at the force, the intestines snaking and coiling into segmented tentacles.  They whipped outward, violently tugging at Yasha’s insides.  With a damp crack, her entire torso opened like a gapping maw.  Scarlet.  Massive.  Dripping with blood and ichor, pouring out of the wound and drenching what was left of Yasha’s body.  The intestines hung low and heavy, like dozens of fleshy tubes, but they coiled with grasping energy.

Yasha wailed again, but this time it was an immediate slap in Beau’s face.  She felt it inside—a deep rumble that squeezed her organs.  She wanted to cry out to scream to Yasha, but the little air she had left was held tight in her lungs.  Beau wheezed, hands clawing backwards at the ground, trying to get away.

Yasha took a halting step forward.  Her body swayed unevenly, like her core was weighted down. Her head was still held straight, but her eyes were dull.  The glimmer of green and violet was shrouded behind a glassy veil.  And she stepped forward again.  Her legs brilliant red.  Glistening.

Beau forced herself up.  “Ya—Yasha?”  It was barely a whisper.  Her voice was thin and reedy.

Yasha—the thing—was almost on top of Beau.  She towered above, seeming even taller.  Beau raised her fists.  Her arms shook and, as she looked into the red expanse approaching her in the heart of Yasha, she knew it was useless.  But she tried again.  “Yasha.  P-Please.  Stop.”

Yasha stepped forward again.  Her insides—the purple mass of intestines—whipped out at Beau.  The heaving wound that was her chest pulsed and beat, opening wide.  Beau knew that it wanted to devour her.  To suffocate her in the bloody mess that had been Yasha’s torso.

Beau swung at the only weakness she could think of—Yasha’s jaw.  Trying, against, all reason to deliver a knockout punch.  Even now, entirely on her backfoot, Beau was quick.  She launched herself up and slipped between the tendrils.  Her fist snapped into Yasha’s jaw.  The contact was just like it should be—hard bone against cartilage, Beau felt the impact, felt the ripple of energy back in her fist, and Yasha’s head jerked to the side.  Beau hit the ground and stumbled backwards.

Yasha’s head pivoted to look at Beau, her eyes empty and staring past her.  Her lips were moving, her jaw opening and closing, but no sound came out.  She was crying.  Her face was painted with despair, as her body moved another step closer to Beau.  That face was still Yasha, even as her body twisted into something else.  Beau’s eyes narrowed to those muttering lips, trying to block out the advancing, grasping mess that used to be Yasha’s body.  She could just make out the shape of the words for which there was no air to speak.  “Please please please please.” Again and again and again.

And then Yasha’s mouth stopped, lips and jaw going loose mid-word.  A dribble of blood seemed to spout from nowhere, filling the tattoo on Yasha’s chin.  At the same time, Beau—eyes unable to pull away from Yasha’s face, grasping at the last remaining piece of her friend—felt something warm and wet slide around her arm.  She glanced down and one of the writhing intestines was coiling around her arm.  It pulled tight, flattening against her flesh as it wound up her arm, stretching, and squeezing.  Beau could feel every crevice and lump in the intestine as it smeared its way upwards, painting her in red.  She wanted to fight.  She wanted to run.  But her body didn’t listen.  It was like something had crawled inside her brain and pulled her away from the controls.  She tried to jerk her arm away, tried to break free, but her arm didn’t move.

But her eyes still worked.  She peered shakily up at Yasha’s face, looking away from the gapping maw that dominated Beau’s world, that grew larger and larger as Yasha’s body loomed over her.

Then there was a snap.

A crack.

And Yasha’s jaw split in two.

Thick blood splattered across Beau’s face and into her mouth, coating her tongue.  She gagged, trying to spit the coppery liquid out, feeling it slide down her throat.

When she looked up, the light in Yasha’s eyes was completely gone—they were clouded over with a milky white film.  They stared without meaning at Beau.  And where Yasha’s mouth had been there was a pink wound, dripping.  Only it wasn’t empty, it was filled with six lolling tongues that hung below a line of jagged razor-edged teeth.  The tongues twitched and curled, each seeming to have a mind of their own.

As the tendril slide up her arm, as the bloody maw became the world, as the head began to lean in towards Beau, the low wail started up again from deep in the wound that was Yasha.  The tones reverberated through Beau’s body making her stomach twist and her teeth ache.  The sound bored into her head and her vision went blurry.  And then, with horror, she realized what the voice was moaning: _Beau._

The word slammed into Beau.  Not because it was her name.  It was what that name meant: there was something of Yasha in this monster.

The wail came again and, again, it was Beau’s name.  Beau couldn’t figure out what it was about the name, about the way it was said, but she knew now that there was still a piece of Yasha in control.  She glanced up at the eyes—milky white—and could just make out the green and violet piercing through the cloudiness.  They weren’t unfocused, they weren’t glazed—it was just the loll of the head that made it seem that way—no, they were fixated right on Beau.  Watching, as the tendrils whipped closer.  Aware.  Focused.

Beau stared back.  The cloudiness seemed to fill her own vision, reducing the world to just Yasha’s eyes.  Through the fog, the sound came again and Beau recognized it for what it was: the dull ache of desire.  Beau had felt it more than enough times: the pull towards another body, the devouring hunger to grab hold of that person and ravage them and possess them, even for just a moment.  It was the feeling Beau quenched when she let her mind imagine Yasha and everything they could do together—a fiery wetness that burned between her legs and in her chest and in her throat.  It was the fire that spread when you finally touched, in your fingertips, in your lips, everywhere.  And that wail of her name contained that hunger.  It was the feeling Beau felt when she pictured Yasha’s eyes above her in the night.  Above her like they were now.  Beau lost herself in those eyes.  Lost herself in the Yasha she wanted.  In the Yasha she had chased . . .

Another wail snapped her out of the reverie and she jerked awake.  She was dangling in the air, tendrils wrapped around each arm, her waist, her legs, slithering and tightening.

She was naked.  Her clothes ripped to shreds and flung to the ground below.

The tendrils drew Beau towards Yasha.

Yasha’s black abyss of a mouth lunged at her.  The fangs sunk deep into her shoulder a hot stinging stab that penetrated deep.  Beau’s arm went numb as Yasha dragged her mouth downwards, slicing wounds across Beau’s chest, her writhing mass of tongues slurping and lapping at the crimson tide that flowed out of Beau.

Beau screamed.  Yasha wailed.    She pulled away, bringing her face level with Beau’s.  The tendrils squirmed and tightened around her body, stretching and flattening, lengthening, reaching.  They held her tight in the air.  She couldn’t even squirm as Yasha’s six tongues flailed towards Beau’s mouth.  They teased and explored, pushing at her tightly closed lips, licking at the corners of her mouth, her nose.  Yasha drew closer, her eyes looking right into Beau’s—the milky film just throwing the green and violet further into contrast.

“Ya—Yash—”

Before she finished, the tongues pushed their way into her mouth: one prying her jaw down, another stretching the side of her mouth, the others leaping forward.  Beau bit down as hard as she could and felt a hot copper taste flood her mouth.  But Yasha didn’t yield.  The tongue between Beau’s teeth slithered deeper, sliding thick into her throat and Beau gagged and when she gagged the other tongues shot forward, cramming into Beau’s mouth, stretching her wide.  They wormed deeper, some filling up her cheeks and licking at her teeth, some playing and wrapping around Beau’s tongue, tugging and massaging, another joining the first, filling Beau’s throat until she was bursting, the tongues pulsing, burning hot.  Beau’s eyes bulged.  Her vision went white.  And she fought, trying to close her mouth, trying to breath, taking ragged breaths through her nose as the tongues roiled in her mouth and throat.

The wail came again: _Beau_. But now it vibrated through the tongues into Beau’s throat, into her chest.  She jerked against the tendrils, arms and legs kicking.  Her breath was growing shallow.  She wasn’t able to get enough air through her nose.  The tongues pushed her throat to bursting.  Her head went light.  Her consciousness beginning to drift away.  Her body giving.  Beau gasped into Yasha’s kiss.

Air rushed into her longs and her vision went bright.  The sloppy tongues pushed her mouth open, letting her choke in an enormous breath.  Then, before Beau could recover, another tongue forced its way down her throat.  She screamed a silent scream, drool cascading out of her swollen mouth, tongues caressing her gullet.

Even as the tongues violated her mouth, the intestinal tendrils pulled Beau closer, sucking her into the wound that had been Yasha’s torso with a viscous slurp.  The fleshy remains enveloped Beau, wrapping her in a bloody embrace.

Beau could feel Yasha’s heartbeat, not distant and contained, but pressed against her chest.  Hot.  Throbbing.  Beating out a steady rhythm into Beau’s skin.  Wet.  Pumping.  And then something moved inside Yasha’s chest cavity.  A thousand mouths working at Beau’s skin: tongues licking and slurping at her flesh, lips kissing their way around her belly and her breasts, teeth nipping and scrapping along her body.  Through the fear, Beau moaned involuntarily around the tongues pulsing in her throat.  Something was tugging on her nipples and Beau was horrified to realize she was soaking wet between her legs, her own juices mixing with the mass of blood and ichor from Yasha.  She wanted this.  She wanted to be swallowed by Yasha, her skin slathered and massaged by whatever was inside Yasha.  She wanted Yasha to suck at her tits until they glowed deep purple and ached to the touch.  She wanted her to lick and suck at her skin until she was painted red with blood and whatever fluids dripped out of the wound.

She felt disgust.  But also an intense desire to have Yasha fill her up in every hole and make her come until she was numb.  Until she didn’t care what Yasha did to her.

The deep throaty wail came again and it was like Yasha had read her mind.  Her tendrils stretched and pulled, wrapping down Beau’s waist and up her legs.  They rolled warm and soft against her cunt, sliding between her legs.  One teased at her wet lips and another flicked at her clit.  Another tendril squirmed behind her, pushing her ass cheeks open and lapping and pushing at her asshole.  Beau moaned, the sound trapped in her throat, just a vibration.

Her gag reflex had finally died, beaten down by the constant onslaught of tongues worming their way inside her mouth and throat.   Now the tongues massaged and rolled inside her and Beau gave in, letting them caress and pet and stretch her throat wide.  Each tongue did its work: two coiling in her cheeks, another squeezing her tongue, and three—fully extended—squirming in her throat like snakes.  Spit streamed down Beau’s chin, dripping down and mixing with the viscera that caressed her body.

She could feel the pulsing of Yasha’s heart everywhere.  In every touch across her skin.  In the tongues in her throat.  In the tendrils wrapping around her body, testing every hole.  Beau’s body pulsed in time to that heartbeat and she didn’t even notice when the first tendril—beating to the same rhythm—slid inside her cunt.  But then another followed, and another, each flattening and squishing as it entered.  Soft.  Pliable. One had been nothing, but three?  Three was enormous.  With each beat of Yasha’s heart, the tendrils expanded, stretched her cunt wide, and then collapsed on the downbeat.  The rhythm steady and constant.  Again.  Again.  Again.  Again.  Again.  Beau gurgled a moan of pleasure deep in her throat with each beat.  Her whole body was burning with the rhythm of Yasha’s heart.

And that rhythm pulsed behind her, multiple tendrils lapping at her asshole, slick with blood and mucus.  They teased her—pushed.  Her asshole gave way and she opened up, her ass spreading for Yasha, the tendrils squeezing.  Beau shook now.  With each pulse, her ass ached, burning from the pressure.  Beau screamed wet and muffled as the tendrils slid deep filling her up with Yasha’s insides.  They stroked and pushed from within and Beau felt her ass gape wide.

With each beat of the heart, the tendrils pushed deeper into Beau’s cunt and ass.  A heavenly emptiness that cracked her open to the world.  The tendrils pulled tight against her arms and legs, bending them back until her arms were pinned to her sides, her legs folded up, spread eagle, opening her up wider, letting the tendrils fill her up more.  The pain was dull and constant, but Beau couldn’t stop wanting it.  The tendrils coiled and rolled inside her, balling up, stretching her insides, stroking her buttons until she writhed.

Limp like a puppet, dangling and dancing to Yasha’s rhythms, eyes lolling white in her sockets, gurgling pleasure and spit, Beau lost all control.  The world was reduced to the overwhelming touch of Yasha: the massaging waves of tongue in Beau’s throat (meaty, slick, delicious), the sucking and licking enveloping her skin (burning kisses stroking her nipples, her belly, pulsing caresses, like a massive tongue gulping every inch of her skin, thick and sloppy), the roiling intestines filling Beau’s ass and cunt (stretching her to breaking, opening her up, straining her until she was on the edge of exquisite, mind numbing pain and ecstasy).  Yasha’s eyes, still open, still staring, filled Beau’s world.  Her vision screamed green and purple.  Then white.  Yasha had stuffed her full and swallowed her whole and Beau convulsed into the choking, devouring, demanding grasp of Yasha’s body.

There was a crack as Beau’s hip bent past the breaking point.  Something ripped.

Everything went gray.  Then black.  Then nothing.

 

Beau’s head swam black as her eyes tried to focus.  Pain jabbed sharp through her body, red and orange.  One arm was numb.  Her leg was twisted.  Something felt like it had ripped inside.  She tried to take a deep breath, but there was a gurgle in her chest and she choked.  Something hot and wet dribbled down her chin.  She blinked, her eyes not focusing, the world only fog.  Her body burned in the cold, the earth slick and muddy beneath her skin.  Above her, a shadow was hovering.  Beau squinted, trying to bring focus to the world, and, as she did, Yasha’s face clicked into relief.  Her form loomed over Beau, her face seemingly healed and normal, but etched with worry.  In her hand, she held an empty bottle.

Beau choked again and her whole body went tense.  She tried to push herself up, to leap backwards, to get away, but her good arm seared with pain and she slopped back into the cold earth.  “Pl—please.  Ya-Yash—“ The words came out raspy and slurred and, as Yasha leaned over her, Beau’s vision went black again. There was nothing.

She awoke with a start.  The world rocked and her head knocked against something dull and colorless.  Her body was wrapped in fur, rolled up in some kind of cloak.  It smelled like Yasha—scorched air and soap.  She tried to twist, but her body didn’t respond.  She could feel the light mist of rain and hear the dull rumble of thunder.  But there was nothing else.  And then black.

She awoke with a jolt, as her body hit the cold ground.  Her mind faded in and out.  She couldn’t quite make out where she was or what was happening.  She could just make out the shadow of clouds above and she realized that the sun must be rising.  She rolled her head to the side, grasping for any detail.

She saw Yasha’s boot, but she didn’t have the energy anymore to react.  A boot was good, right?  That meant soft Yasha, not—not other Yasha.  As she thought this, Yasha knelt down beside her.  She didn’t touch Beau.  Her eyes were red and puffy.

“The others should find you here.  I—I’m—“  Yasha lost the words, her hand reaching out instinctively for Beau before freezing and pulling back quickly, as if realizing a mistake.  “Beau, I—“

Yasha stood up and Beau tried to follow her face, but she disappeared into a blur of clouds above.

“Goodbye,” said Yasha.

She left, just a shadow in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally imagined this as a one-shot, but emotionally I can't leave it like this. Next time? Yasha doesn't come back and Beau sets off to find her.
> 
> I am also [bboiseux on tumblr](https://bboiseux.tumblr.com/).
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